No One Read This But River (Like Getting People Not To Read This Writing Is A Problem) Hey, Shut Up

River, I miss you a lot. You don’t have to read all or any of this, but you know that, after all it’s just me, it’s just who I am. You can skip to the last paragraph if you’d like.

I woke up Friday, not yesterday, but a week ago. I had some work to do for my mother for the movie Skyfall. It’s not important, it doesn’t pay much. I write down trailers at various theaters then I send them to a company that shows them to movie studios and everyone’s time is wasted on nothing.

The whole day was planned around you. I know, weird. But we’ve talked most on Friday’s, so I was hoping we might talk again, so I wanted to get my work done in time since it’s based on when I want to do it (given it’s done on that particular day). I looked at the bus and max (streetcar) schedules (because Quentin’s a loser and still can’t drive) and everything and I knew I could be home by roughly nine, which seemed good enough given the week before I wasn’t home ‘til 11:30 and was happy to see you still, or perhaps just, online.

I was shaving and I cut myself. River, I always, always cut myself shaving. And when I don’t cut myself shaving I will always, always cut myself the next time I shave. It was a big cut this time, which made it all the more hilarious because I had to leave and catch the bus soon and it wouldn’t stop bleeding by that time, so I’d have to go to work with a Band-Aid brand adhesive bandage on my chin. But what made it better was hours earlier I told myself that I should shave well before I have to leave just in case I cut myself shaving, because if you don’t know I always, always cut myself shaving.

I went to work, looking like a fool, but that’s normal, the abnormal part was that I looked like a fool but this time with a Band-Aid brand adhesive bandage on my chin. I didn’t even know the blood was thick enough to show through the Band-Aid brand adhesive bandage until hours later when I looked in a mirror. All was well. I got my work done at that particular theater and watched Skyfall even though I’m not a James Bond fan and had never seen a full James Bond film before. It was good, although I would have done the ending different – I would have had you walk in and say, “Silly Quentin going to the movies without me,” then you start making out with me while I couldn’t care less about missing the subpar ending of the movie.

I got to the Max to get me to my destination well ahead of schedule, I was happy about that. Then the max just sat there, and sat there, and sat there. 40 minutes of sitting there and I was pissed because I went from ahead of schedule to behind schedule. Luckily I’m a horrible, horrible planer and I thought the max (once started) would take a lot longer to get to my next destination than it really would.

I got off the max and everything was just fine, so I entered the bookstore. I went to the anthology section because I looked it up online first and I knew it would be there. Normally I would wait to tell you that after getting out of the bookstore I missed the max to take me to the second and last theater I had to do that day by less than a minute, but I think the reason why I missed it is more exciting than actually missing it.

There were lots of labels in the Anthology section, most of them were just single words, but then I started reading labels with multiple words, one of which was always Anthologies, so I assumed that was where the Anthology section actually started, even though it was in the middle of the book shelf.

River, if we ever get together, and I sincerely hope that we one day will but I think writing all of this might put a damper in that but I pray to the God I don’t believe in that it won’t, don’t ever let me assume anything. I am a giant idiot, but that you already knew.

I was looking for the book in the Essay Anthologies part. River, the stories in the book aren’t essays, they’re fictional stories, essays are non-fiction, generally I believe, but then again I’m a huge idiot so what do I know. I looked for the book for minutes and minutes, where the author’s last names started with C were, where I knew there should be at least two copies of it based on the information online. But it wasn’t there, so I had to go talk to somebody and ask if they had it.

She told me they had copies in the Anthology section, I was just there but I wasn’t going to argue with her. So I went back, I looked in the same place, and it wasn’t there. Before I gave up I remembered to remind myself to remember the thing I always must remember before I start thinking, “Quentin, you’re an idiot.” Once I remembered that I knew stories in the books weren’t essays, they would be in the Literature part of the Anthology section, which I thought, because I’m an idiot, was just general literature and had nothing to do with Anthologies.

I found the book, right where it was supposed to be, right where anyone with half, a quarter, one eighth and so on and so forth, of a brain would have first looked for it.

I never would have bought the book, or probably even heard of it unless a beautiful girl I knew had suggested it. I didn’t get the book to impress her, that I would go out and read something she suggested. I got it because she stuns me with her intellect and therefore her recommendations mean something to me.

Pieces, edited by Stephen Chbosky. It was thinner than I thought it would be. When you had said short stories for some reason I imagined stories 30, 40, 50 pages long.

You know that I missed the max by seconds, and now you know it’s because I’m an idiot and don’t know how to navigate a bookstore. Nothing to fear though, the next Max would be by soon, and it’d be cutting it close, but I’d probably make it.

Why wait for the next green line though? I had an idea (rare). Take the yellow line to the transit center then hop on the red, that might be faster if certain circumstances happened. But certain circumstances probably wouldn’t happen. River, this is where I tell you that certain circumstances happened.

The yellow line came, I thought that thought I just wrote, then let it pass. The green line was expected to come in 7 minutes and it would probably get me there faster than the yellow then red would anyway. Well 7 minutes came and gone, and the green didn’t come. A little while after another yellow came, but I didn’t get on it. I waited another half hour before the green came, and now I was late to work, not that I can be late, I was just off schedule, the schedule that I thought would get me home in time to get the most talking that I could out of this girl that I so thoroughly adore.

On the Max ride a guy who I think is gay stepped on my shoe. First of all, I wasn’t judging him. It’s not important to the story (is this a story?) that I thought he was gay, but it’s what I thought in that moment and I generally write what I thought in that or this moment. His hair was styled uniquely, and he was dressed stereotypically gay, and on his Ipad thingie he was reading a fashion blog. I don’t care if he’s gay, actually I prefer it/

Tangent – I once argued with my friends about whether this guy we had just met was gay or not. He was wearing short shorts, talking with a lisp, and was giving me eyes. I said I thought he could be gay, again not that I minded, and when asking my friends if they thought he was gay they took the more assumed open minded answer of, “I don’t know.” To which I was incredulous – whatever that means – as to why they wouldn’t even admit that he had some gay stereotypes. I was secretly hoping he was gay because girls don’t give me the eyes in a good way, ever, so if this guy was liking what he saw I would have took it as a compliment and gotten a much needed boost of self esteem. But the only reason I bring this up is that one of the friends I was having the lighthearted argument with later came out of the closet, which I never saw coming. And that should have taught me a valuable lesson…but I still think that guy was gay, and if I was gay we could have had some fun together, although I imagine he wouldn’t be my type.

Also, the guy stepping on my shoe didn’t hurt my footie toes because my shoes are about 4 sizes too big. I ordered them online cheaply, they came 3 sizes too big – I ordered them 1 size too big – and I was too lazy to return them so I kept them and still wear them sometimes even though they feel very awkward to walk in.

I was very offput the rest of the night, not because the guy stepped on my shoe, but because the day did not go to schedule and it was all my fault. So I basically just wanted to let you know about my idiocy – took me three times to spell that right, and that’s an unmeant lie because I didn’t even spell it right, the spellcheck eventually did.

I miss you more and more with each day that goes by, and I feel bad because I’m not there, and I’m not getting there fast enough, and I feel like I’m letting you down, and I don’t like that. I’m letting my head get the best of me. I don’t know how you could possibly like me when it’s clear that you could get almost any guy you wanted – not including the guy who stepped on my shoe – and I don’t know how you could possibly continue to like me. Anyway, I clearly like writing too much, and I’m not sure if it’s possible to like you too much, and let me know if you get on tomorrow, or technically today, with a messages or blown kiss or some such. Don’t go tripping over any cats, River, at least not until I’m there to catch you….aren’t I the worst?

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About Danniel

http://closertoclarity.com/
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6 Responses to No One Read This But River (Like Getting People Not To Read This Writing Is A Problem) Hey, Shut Up

  1. Scotty B says:

    Impressive

  2. Parisian Idiot (Idiot Parisien) says:

    River’s a stupid name anyway.

  3. Stupid Name says:

    Yeah, almost as bad as Sky.

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